I Speak...Love (A Different Road #3) (7 page)

I walk into his opulent office and take a seat behind his heavy, dark wooden desk. I set my briefcase on the side of the desk, then slouch back in his rich, Italian leather reclining chair. I steeple my fingers and bring them to my face. If I close my eyes and listen hard enough in the silence, I can still hear Kate’s childhood laughter echo in the hallways and the faint, baritone voice of my father calling me
son.
Never far behind those echoes are the disappointed look on my father’s face as I blackmailed him, and the crushing sound of my mother’s heart as I called her a bitch.

I open my eyes and look at the locked desk drawer that once again houses one of the secrets I keep. As much as I deserve it, the other secret is just too painful to think about. My secrets and choosing to live in this house are my crosses to bear. It’s a constant reminder and my punishment for the things I’ve done. I lean over in my chair and run my finger over the marred keyhole of the drawer I haven’t opened since the day I placed my sister’s file back in ten years ago. I look up at my dad’s floor to ceiling, dark wood shelves that line both sides of the office topped with extravagant crown molding. My eyes travel over his cherished antique books and his most proud, precious keepsakes. This room is always so electrified. Sometimes, I swear I can feel him in the room with me. What I wouldn’t give to hear his voice. I open my briefcase, then start the hours of work I need to finish before tomorrow.

It’s too much. I can’t take it. The three questions I have to ask myself before I can enter the house I now call home, combined with Stephen standing next to me, are just too much. Why is he even here? I acted so bonkers at lunch, he should be calling the loony bin to come pick me up. I was sure he’d avoid me at all costs, yet here he stands with my catering bags over his shoulders, holding my empty lunch container, looking tastier than fine chocolate . . . wanting to come into my house.

“I . . . I just wanted to give your container back to you, and I never thanked you for bringing lunch. So, thank you, and it was really nice to see you today,” he says.

He watches me as my eyes go from the dish to the strap over his shoulder, to the door, then back at him again. This all has the unfamiliar scent of happiness, and my mind immediately goes to thinking about how much it will really hurt to have it all taken away if I allow it in my life.

“I’ll just leave these here,” he says, when I find my mouth and body unable to move.

When I still don’t say anything, he removes the bags from his shoulders and places them on the ground. He sets the empty container on top of one, then turns around and walks away.

“Stephen,” I say, finally finding my voice. He stops and turns around, then his beautiful, long, dark eyelashes and brown eyes come to mine. His dark, stubbled chin and sharp jawline tip upward, and my mouth immediately goes dry. “You’re welcome,” I manage to say in a whisper.

When clients are home while I cook, they usually say thank you as I leave, but that’s just a professional courtesy. Stephen went out of his way and drove to my house to say thank you to my face. It’s just too much.

I close my eyes and listen as he starts his car, then he drives down the street. After he’s gone, I open my eyes, ask myself, my three questions, then I go into my house. I was closer to home than
California Chef
after my last client, so I came home instead of driving back into Malibu to drop off the unused ingredients and my cooler bags. I unload the perishable ingredients in the refrigerator, then change out of my work uniform. I carefully hang my chef coat in my closet, then walk back to the kitchen. I only ate one bite of my lunch, and I’m starving. I grab my camera off the counter and choose to go for a walk and feed my passion instead of my stomach.

I grab my keys, slip on my shabby, worn shoes with dirty, frayed shoelaces by the door, then walk outside to the promise of a beautiful sunset. I walk about a mile out of my neighborhood until I come to the train tracks. Joss and Nina’s home, while not in Malibu, is absolutely beautiful and by no means insignificant. But on the other side of these train tracks are multi-million dollar homes with meticulously manicured lush lawns, gated entryways, and homes to the rich and famous. I stand in the center of the track, and it’s not the egotistical thought that I’m always going to be that girl on the wrong side of the train tracks, but the thought that I’m near any side of the train track to begin with instead of in the gutter.

I crouch down in the center of the track and stare at the two rusted rails for a long time until they cross in my vision and blur into one. I snap a photo of the rails as they curve and bend out of focus in the distance. I snap several dozen more photos until the sun is low in the sky. I walk to a park and make my way to the highest point on a hill. I snap several photos of the sun setting and the clouds stained brilliant shades of pink and orange, then I see a little girl swinging carefree on a swing set. A few feet away is a beautiful woman who’s the spitting image of her daughter on the swing. She’s sitting on the grass with a big smile on her face as she watches her daughter joyfully swing higher and higher toward the heavens. Her face turns to me, and she smiles at me. I raise my camera silently asking if I can take her daughter’s picture. At first, she looks at me cautiously contemplating if I’m a weirdo stalker who will do only God knows what with the photos, but then she nods her head. The little girl is wearing a sheer princess costume over her leggings, and her long blonde hair cascades down her back as she leans back to swing. The sun is setting in front of her, and I snap photo after photo. The mother goes back to watching her daughter and the smile on her profile while the sun sets on her face, is magnificent. I turn the camera to the mother and take several photos of her as well. I walk over to the mother, reach into my camera bag and remove one of my catering business cards.

I hand her my card, then ask, “Can I have your email address? I’ll send you the photos, then delete them, I promise.”

She rattles off her email address, I write it down on a scrap piece of paper, then shove it into the side pocket of my camera bag. On the way home, I take several more photos until my small memory card is full.

Inside, I remove the memory card from my camera, grab my laptop, a bag of Fig Newton’s, and go outside to the patio. I light a fire in the fire pit, then sit crisscross in a chair and boot up my laptop. I insert the memory card and double click on my editing software. As I click through the photos, I choose my favorites, then begin editing. The picture of the train tracks I turn to black and white, and it’s just stunning. It’s not just the photo that’s stunning, but the feelings it brings back before, during, and after that speak volumes. It was lonely and desolate, and I felt that then and now. It’s amazing the feelings, the sounds, even the smell a photograph can bring.

The photo of the little girl on the swing is absolutely breathtaking. I turn it sepia and her black shadowed silhouette immediately stands out against the glowing sunset in front of her. The sheer, organza fabric of her costume and her golden blonde hair glow all around her like she’s an angelic creature.

Next, I click on the photo with the profile of the mother. The love in her eyes as she looks adoringly at her daughter takes me off guard. Could her daughter feel the love coming from her mother? I can feel it for her just by looking at the photo. I’ve never felt that motherly love toward me. I decide to leave the photo as it is. There isn’t one thing I could do with a computer and software that could make it any more beautiful than it already is. I edit a few more photos, then I email them to the mother and delete them from my memory card.

I close my laptop and stare into the fire as I mindlessly shove Fig Newton after Fig Newton into my mouth.

When the fire is nothing but a faded smoldering glow and the bag of Fig Newton’s are empty, I take my laptop in the house, then crawl into bed.

My alarm goes off at five, but I’ve been lying awake in bed for hours. I turn off the alarm, then swing my legs over the side of the mattress. I reach for my glasses on the nightstand, then put them on my face. The smell of a fresh pot of coffee calls me downstairs.

I throw on a pair of basketball shorts, then walk down the staircase and go into the kitchen.

“Good morning, Mr. Mason,” Nelly, my live-in housekeeper cheerfully greets.

“Good morning, Nelly,” I reply and grab the cup of coffee she’s already poured into my cup.

Nelly wasn’t always my live-in housekeeper. She worked here while my parents were still alive. My mother and Nelly always had a strong friendship that went well beyond an employee/employer relationship. After my parents had died, Sebastien, my father’s best friend was appointed by my father’s will to raise us, and he immediately fired the staff when he took control. It turned out to all be a lie and Sebastien was only interested in the Mason fortune. Over the years, he was able to embezzle millions of dollars before River found out the truth. I rehired Nelly part-time once he moved out. Five years ago her husband died and, unfortunately, left her with a mound of debt. She lost the home she shared with him and their three children of thirty-three years. Her children have long moved away and have families of their own. It wasn’t even a question if I would take care of the woman who helped raise my brother, sister, and me. I would have purchased her home and outright given it to her had I known about it beforehand, but that wasn’t the case. Her dignity and years of loyal service mean more to me than anything. I told her this house was just too much for me to care for on my own and offered her a full-time, live-in position, and she gratefully accepted.

It’s me who is grateful to her. This house would be way too quiet if I were left here alone with my thoughts and ghostly echoes. Her singing as she does the laundry or cleans, reminds me of my mother and brings me comfort.

“I made you eggs,” she says, placing a plate in front of me on the counter.

“I need to get to the office,” I tell her, take my coffee, and start walking away.